Notes From the Stable

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Friday, 28 September 2012

This
week Write on Edge asks for “A little break this week from
storytelling.

“It's
the beginning of autumn, the students are back in the classrooms, and
at Write on Edge our thoughts are turning to our dreams and
ambitions. This week we want to hear about your writing goals. Take
three hundred words and tell us about where you want to take your
writing.”

I
took 289. To see how other writers handled the prompt, please click
on the link.

***

I want to take my
writing
into myself, to explore my thoughts and feelings and

out

into the world of
marvels and magic. I want it to echo
shouts and whispers; savour
sweet, sour and bitter; to shiver, and sweat, wonder and fear: to
thrill.

I want it to sniff
the
freshness of dawn's dew, recoil at putrefaction's stench. Delight.

I want us to travel
on
a packed and dusty train, lurching across the Sub-Continent's reaches
on a narrow-gauge track;
to slither
through a spider-veiled jungle
that sparkles with the eyes of hidden monkeys.

I want it to propel me
across a crevass-crossed glacier whose blue-white ice waves shiver
and groan and crack.

I want it to drag me
into the memory of aqua-melting-to-royal-deepening-to
navy-fading-to-black depths of the sea, where gold-fish flit
between sunlight and shadow and sharks and barracuda circle in the
deep.

I want to follow it
back to the emptiness of the desert, where heat waves bounce between
black granite and red and the sun chases a patch of shade around the
thorns of acacias and the nights' campfires send shadows flickering across
canyon walls.

I want to tramp behind
my words
through city streets as they catch the eyes of bankers and
cleaners, shysters and shop girls and service dogs, and peck
breadcrumbs with pigeons – in the rain, under the sun, through
drizzle, uncertain predawn, and twilight.

We will follow
cart tracks
and super highways and goatpaths that wind through Mediterranean
scree where the scents of bruised thyme and sage dog our footsteps and
caper bushes clutch at our legs.

I want to take
my words
to the farthest reaches of swirling space – all emptiness and
supernova.

Saturday, 28 July 2012

This Week's Write On Edge prompt called for 'A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a hand-written letter'. I sifted memories for a while and eventually came up with some fiction, based on a contemporary means that some people use to terminate relationships. Please follow the link and see how others handled the prompt.

***

“See this,” my
twelve-year-old grand-daughter came into the spare room as I put the
finishing touches on making the bed and flicked a duster for the last
time over the already shining mahogany bookcase. She held out her
mobile telephone, pushing one of the buttons so that the screen
glowed. “Luv u always,” I read. “But better we b just
frends. Sry. 2 much in my life rite now xx”.

“I don't know whether
to laugh or cry,” she said, slumping onto the bed and sending
ripples of wrinkles radiating over the counterpane's once-taut
surface. “To think that I spent two weeks building a relationship
with a guy who's so lame he breaks up with me by text! 'Too much in
his life': he means World of Warcraft and his skateboard, of course.”
She looked down at the counterpane. “Oh... Sorry.”

I made some sympathetic
noises and surreptitiously patted at the chintz. I could believe the
text break-up. Dwayne had, the few times I'd spotted him with the
waistband of his trousers well below his the elastic of his boxer
shorts, his cap on sideways, and his gaze sliding from mine whenever
I offered an affable “Good afternoon, young man”, seemed posessed
of a singular lack of courage.

I thought back sixty
years to the time when my decision to ditch Jim in favour of pony
club had resulted in my penning, in the immaculate copperplate that
we were learning at grammar school: “Dearest, please come to tea
on Saturday afternoon at four o'clock. Mummy has promised a
chocolate cake as well as jelly after crumpets, so that should make
you feel a little better after the really dreadful news that I plan
to give you.” I had placed it in a lavender coloured envelope,
added a spritz of scent, and posted it from the pillar box on the
corner.

Jim had dutifully
turned up and taken my termination of our shared break-time
sandwiches and Saturday walks in the park without a wobble in his
upper lip. He had scoffed his crumpets, cake, and jelly, and said
manfully “Well, I'll have more time for cricket practice and my
model sailboat now.” Then smiling at my mother, he had said
“Brilliant cake, Mrs Evans! Good-bye!”

“To think,” I had
turned to my mother indignantly. “That I spent six weeks building a
relationship with someone more concerned with models and cricket! I
don't know whether to laugh or cry...” She had patted my shoulder
gently and made sympathetic noises. “But thank-you for the cake,”
I said. “The rat had something right: it was delicious.”

“I have an idea,” I
said to Sarah as she stood up and tried to smooth the wrinkled
chintz. “Would you like us to make a chocolate cake?”

Wednesday, 11 July 2012

This week's prompt from Sticky Fingers is 'Food', and since I had just been to take pictures at the Taverna where my daughter works, I thought of including some of those pictures here.

It's a small place with a small staff one valley over from our village. Summer is the tourist season, and the tables are full every night. The kitchen was small and hot and very busy. I hope that the pictures convey that -- to see them bigger, please click on each image.

To see how other photographers handled the prompt, please go to the Sticky Fingers page and check out others' work. Feel free to comment or join in!

Saturday, 12 May 2012

For the weekend link-up, Write On Edge has asked for a favourite piece of writing. I wrote this last autumn in response to the prompt of 'A scary phone text message'. It describes the possible impact of the beginning of another Turkish invasion of Cyprus on our family and friends. At 3000 words, it's long. I have tried to pare it down as much as possible, but retain crucial details and relationships. I would be grateful for any comments, criticism, or feedback -- to know if, and how, it works. Thanks for reading, and please follow the link to read what other WOE writers came up with this weekend!

***

I
turned off the hoses and straightened to look around. Not a
garden.... Gardens are neat with grass and flowers; this is a patch
of land with olives with the vegetable beds that feed my family,
manure piles, and the decaying straw bales for mulch. As I surveyed it, I mentally collated the jobs that needed
doing: organise a picking crew for the olives, make
pepper spray to deter whatever is eating the chard, pick beans, pick
tomatoes; manure and mulch the young walnut and avocado trees... My
in-laws were in Nicosia, and I made another mental note: to pick some
pomegranates from their tree for juicing.

I
loved these autumn mornings: not hot, not cold, the air clear enough
to find details in the mountains and the sea; a light breeze from the
west. Everyone but Xenia, studying for her GCSE's at home, had left
for school by 7.15, and I would go through my exercise routine then
do an hour's yard work before a shower, breakfast, and housework.
These were days of bright blue sky, full of the sound and the
circling of birds and the unobtrusive companionship of our doting dog
and crippled cat, overseers of my outside work.

I
went downstairs to put on a wash, looking in on Xenia as she worked
her correspondence classes, neat brown head bent over her notebook.
‘Such dedication,’ I thought. ‘Making a timetable for her eight
subjects and sticking to it five days a week, month in, month out’
But she was determined to go to one of England’s better boarding
schools for her A-Levels, and the entrance exams were a week away.

“When
I make breakfast, do you want a cup of tea?” She nodded and
replaced her headphones. Half a dozen helicopter gunships clattered
overhead, a common sound at this time when they practiced formation
flying from the military base that shared runways with Paphos
International Airport, three miles to the west.

I
heard the phone ring three times and then stop. 'Must be Dinos,' I
thought. 'His morning call from the office.' I dressed and was
about to call him back when the airport sirens began to wail.
“Strange” I thought, searching my mind for an autumn
commemoration. Then my mobile buzzed and jangled.

'New
message', the screen told me. 'From Dinos.' I pressed 'View'.

‘Air
strikes on L/sol port and L/ca port and airport. Paphos next? Tanks
moving to encircle N/sia. I am recalled to my unit. Do as we
discussed. Do NOT wait. Do NOT try to call me. I will be busy &
will call when I can. Love always. XXX'

Was
he kidding? 'What we discussed...' That meant gather the children
and our American passports and head for the British Sovereign Airbase
at Akrotiri hoping to be allowed to shelter or evacuate with British
nationals. My husband would stay “to fight a war I'm too old to
fight, if the worst comes to the worst,” he had said when we had
long ago talked about what our roles would be, should war ever again
erupt in our perennially unstable corner of the world. “For the
first few days I would be doing my old job, making sure the young
ones get the fuel and parts they need. But if the front crumbled I
would have to fight as well.”

I
keyed in his number, but it rang once before the nasal tone of the
recording began 'The number you have dialled cannot be reached...' I
took a breath to clear my mind and focus, not on my rising fear, but
on what to do in order to carry out my husband's unequivocal
instructions. My in-laws were away ‘Oh God,’ I thought. ‘In
Nicosia... Push that away, Catherine,’ my brain insisted. ‘There’s
nothing that you can do for them from here.'

I
opened the office door. “Switch off,” I said to my daughter,
gesturing at the computer. “And come here.” When she did, I put
my hands on her shoulders and looked hard into her eyes. “Pack it
up. We have to leave.” She shook her head in incomprehension.
“The Turks are invading and we have to get to Akrotiri.” I kept
my hands on her shoulders and my eyes locked on hers and spoke slowly
and very calmly, as much for me as for her: “You cannot think about
anything right now except for what we have to do. We don't have
decisions, just steps to follow. We don't screw up, and we might all
get out. We can think about the other stuff later, but first we have
to concentrate on simple things, one at a time.” When I paused for
breath, she blinked, and I could see the thoughts churning in her
mind, but ploughed on. “I have to collect Christos and the
Littles. You must pack – a carry-on for each of us with warm
clothes. Bring the lap-top, the Mac external hard drive, and the
plastic box that I will put on my bed. Get some books – we might
be doing a lot of waiting. And photo albums – one in each bag...”
I had run through this list many times in my head, but Xenia was
cutting me off with waving hands.

“Wait
a minute. How do you know?”

“Daddy
texted,” I answered. “There have been airstrikes on the ports
and airports...” The rest of my words were drowned by the growing
crescendo of jets heading toward the airport. The windows shuddered,
pictures trembled, and as the anti-aircraft defenses opened up, the
deep staccato rattle made speech almost impossible. “And find Mary
and Mrs. Jolley,” I shouted. “Tell them we're heading for
Akrotiri and ask what their plans are...” My phone shrilled, the
glowing screen read 'Sarah'.

“Jimmy
just called,” she said, Yorkshire voice taut, as soon as I opened
the line. “He's been called up and says we're to go to the base.
What are your plans and can we join forces to collect children?”
Her daughter went to school with my two youngest at the village
Elementary, her older son was at the Academy with Christos.

“You
get the Littles and we’ll meet me at my place,” I yelled over
another jet's scream. “I'll pick up Jack with Christos. Tell him
to wait at the bus stop.”

No
sooner had I closed the phone than it shrilled again. My son was on
the line. “What's going on?” he shouted. “They said 'there's
an emergency and you've all got to go home'? We can see and hear the
planes...”

“Find
Jack,” I said in a blessed lull. “And get to the bus stop. I'll
pick you up as soon as I can get there.”

“Oscar
Mike!” answered my eldest son. Just like him to treat an invasion
like another computer game or movie.

“Remember,”
I said to Xenia. “Warm clothes, toiletries, laptop, cables, and
chargers. Mac drive, box on my bed, albums, Mary and Mrs. J. And
grab the big first aid kit from the top of the dresser.” She
nodded as I ran into my room for the box with the passports and other
vital documents, a stash of gold coins, and my wallet. I hit speed
dial on the mobile and connected with the school, telling the
secretary that I would be collecting my son and Sarah's at the bus
stop within fifteen minutes. “Thank-you Mrs. A,” her voice was
calm over the rising babble in the background. “That would be
fine.”

“I'm
off,” I told Xenia's back. “Sarah should be here soon, I might
be longer: if they’ve hit the airport, things could get bad on the
road.” On cue, the siren wailed again and the scream of jet
engines tore the air. Whose? Theirs? Had the Greeks come already
to help? The Israelis? Who knew? Did it matter? The airport,
equidistant between my house and the school, was far enough from the
main road that passing it shouldn't be too much of a problem, one
small beige family Toyota not too much of a target.

I
drove down the hill and turned onto the main road. I tried the
radio, but the local stations were in chaos and the signal from
British Forces Radio didn't reach Paphos. Except for some military
trucks heading for the base at Anarita, traffic was light –
although the petrol station was doing brisk business. In fifteen
minutes I reached the school to find Christos and Jack with several
other senior pupils at the bus stop.

They
threw their bags into the car. “Are we mobilising, Mum,”
Christos asked. “Has Dad gone?” His lips tightened. Never
one to show his emotions, like his father Christos could be almost
impossible to read.

As
we passed the turn-off to Mandria, the airport sirens wailed again
and a handful of jets streaked past 300 yards to our right. “Jesus
they’re low!” cried Christos, his voice drowning in the roar and
the car rocking in the shockwave of an explosion than sent smoke
boiling into the air. “That was the airport! Where are Uncle
Pavlos and the cousins?” They worked at the airport.

Sarah
was in the yard, her wide-eyed daughter still in the car. She hugged
Jack: “In the car, lad!” and turned to me. “Yours are getting
changed. Shall we head out together?” but Xenia appeared, bags in
hand and said “Mary asked us to hang on. Mrs. J and her mum are on
some kind of expat bus heading for the airport – the High
Commission has said there's a plane there to get English out --”

“If
there's a runway left,” I interrupted. “That last lot just hit
the airport!”

“--
well Plan B was for the coach to go to Akrotiri, so she's sorted.
Hubby's staying of course.”

Andreas
and Antonis, eleven and eight, ran out of the front door. “The
Turks are coming!” they shouted together. “The teachers said
that we must be brave and might have to fight! We saw the planes!”

“Will
Daddy get his gun back?” asked Andreas, bright-eyed, recalling the
rifle that had spent years on our top shelf, returned to the armoury
when Dinos signed off the ready reserve at the age of forty.
‘Another one thinking in terms of video games and action movies,’
I thought, wondering if the fear of understanding reality was any
better.

“You
go.” I urged Sarah, gesturing to the capering boys to get into the
car and stop making shooting gestures into the now-empty sky. “Don't
wait for us – I don't even know if they'll let us in the gate.
We're not Brits, remember.”

She
gave me a quick hug and settled behind the wheel of the natty little
Mazda. “Keep in touch, love,” she said her accent broader with
every syllable. “We'll be laughing about this next week, you'll
see.” But her smile was strained, and the fingers that brushed
back the fine brown hair fluttered. “See you when we see you, and
take care...” She gunned the engine, put the car into gear, and
sped away.

Christos
came out just as a police SUV drove into the yard and my
brother-in-law, head of airport police security, jumped out in
military fatigues and flak jacket.

“You're
going now?” he said to me. “Dinos said for me to check. We're
tasked to hold the airport in case there's a landing.”

“Is
there any news?” I asked. “Negotiations? Allies? Where are Lia
and the kids?” His wife worked in town, his adult son and daughter
at the airport.

“Nothing
yet,” he answered. “Lia’s staying put – it’s unlikely that
the Turks will risk bombing a big town. Andreas has gone to his
unit, Rafaella’s at the airport. The runway is damaged but can
still be used by C-130s. Maybe the Greeks can come that way.
Otherwise it's up to us. I'm off. You go. Now.”

But
“With all due respect, Mum, Dad can shove his instructions. I
can't run while my family and all my friends are fighting – some
maybe dead already on the Line! How will I live with myself?”
Pavlos's eyes met mine, and we knew that there was little I could
say. At 18, Christos was the only one of his kindergarten group
still out of the army – his English-language education mandated
another year and a half in school. But he was right: all his friends
and relatives were either fighting already or about to start.
Keeping him with me was not my decision any more.

“I’ll
look after him,” Pavlos said. And “Don’t take the motorway –
they’ve hit the HaPotami bridge.” Then he was gone.

I
turned to face Xenia's tear-filled eyes and the jagged line of her
mouth. “I knew he’d go...” she started, but I cut her off with
“What's happening with Mary?” Then noticed Deepah, my in-law's
Sri Lankan house-help beside the car, a small bag in her hand.

“Madame
please,” she said. “You go, I come!” She had stayed home and
with my parents-in-law caught in Nicosia and her consulate probably
in ruins, I could not leave her. “You have your papers?” I
asked. But “No, Papa have...” my father-in-law kept them locked
in a safe. “Please Madame. I come...” She began to sob and
Xenia put her arm around her tiny shoulders and, as I nodded, led her
to the Land Rover and helped her climb in.

“The
dog, mum,” Xenia began. But at that moment, Mary's battered white
mini-bus pulled up in a swirl of gravel. Leaving the engine running,
my best friend of sixteen years flung open the door and jumped out,
words tumbling over each other. “I can't find Anita! She went on
a class trip to the Field School at Terra, and I can't reach her or
any of the teachers on the mobile.” She yanked open the sliding
door and I saw her three youngest children in the back. Martha, aged
nine, sat against the far side, lips compressed to a thin line, palms
pressed flat between her knees. Annie, two years older, sobbed
noisily. Seven-year-old Joey smiled. “We saw 'planes, Catherine!
Loud ones! And Mummy drove really really fast down the motorway!”

“Come
on,” said Mary. “Bags! Out now!” She kissed the three in
turn as they clambered down and helped them into the Land Rover
beside Deepah, then turned to me. “You'll take them with you,
won't you? They’ve got their passports. Takis has been called up
and I can’t reach him. Andreas went with Panicos to Kissonerga,
and Petros too.” Andreas, her eldest, had just finished his
military service. Trained as naval infantry, his mission would have
been to defend the Exocet missiles in Kissonerga – the same job
that Panicos, his younger brother, was now doing. Petros, a week shy
of his sixteenth birthday, had probably felt much like Christos. But
Anita, thirteen, was away in the hills somewhere and “I can't
leave her...”

“I
will take them, of course,” I told Mary. “But I might not get
in. Should I keep them with me, or let them in if they're allowed?”

“You'll
have to decide that when the time comes,” she said, pushing a piece
of paper into my hand. “This is my dad's number in London. If
they get on a plane, call him and he'll meet them wherever they land.
Try and let me know what happens, too. If I find Anita, I'm not sure
what we'll do. Takis told me to leave, but... Where's Christos?”

“Gone
with Pavlos to the airport,” I said. “I couldn't keep him.”

She winced. “Gotta go,” Then: “I'm heading home, if there's
no sign there, then to the school, if

only a few villages. They're probably sheltering there; I just can't
understand why she hasn't called

or answered her phone... There should be a signal...” her voice
tailed off before she focused again.

“But you'd best be off. See you when we see you!” Echoing Sarah
she added: “We'll probably be laughing about this, same time next
week!” And we embraced quickly before she got behind the wheel and
headed down the road.

“Mum
the dogs,” said Xenia. “And what about Stumpy?” My
mother-in-laws Alsatian cross was barking in her pen, excited by the
noise and the comings and goings. And Sputnik, our golden mutt, was
sniffing at Annie and Joey, perplexed at their refusal to get down
and play. Our three-legged cat was nowhere to be seen.

“Christ,
Xenia, we can't take the animals!” I spoke more harshly than I
meant and saw her flinch but realise the pointlessness of argument.
“Let Lucky out of her cage – she'll have something of a chance
that way – but we'll have to leave them. Fill the water
containers, and we'll leave food out... But there's nothing we can
do, Xenia, I'm sorry. They'll never let us take them out on a plane
with us, and maybe not even on to the base. I'd rather leave them
here at home than dump them there...”

My
reasoning sounded pathetic, a cop out, even to me. People had stayed
with their pets through Hurricane Katrina, through the Lebanon War.
But we weren't to stay. I had my explicit instructions – to get
myself and my children to safety. To leave everything but essentials
behind. I shoved sentimentality away. The cat, I knew would be
fine. The dogs would have to find their own way.

I
went into the house for a last check: everything off, windows that
could not be shuttered left open on the off chance that they would
not be shattered by blast. I grabbed my cameras and shoved them into
a bag with some notebooks, pens and pencils, and picked up three old
journals from the shelf above my desk.

It
was time to go. Time to leave the fields we had worked, the house we
had built, the antique furniture that had belonged to my mother. I
wondered if I'd see it again. Last time, in 1974, people had fled
their homes sure that they'd be back in days or weeks: they had been
away decades, and were still unable to return for good. Like us they
had left with little more than what they stood up in, leaving their
orchards and fields, their animals, and their men behind fighting.

What
about other friends? Angela was either on the bus with the other
Brits or would stay to face the Turkish Army with her dog. My
Russian cleaning lady and her family would stay in town, and I prayed
that Pavlos was right and that there would be no airstrikes on
residential areas.

I
pushed those worries away as more jets screamed toward the airport
and the anti-aircraft guns opened up with their thumping staccato. I
thought about Christos, man-child, behind the guns, under the bombs,
and hoped that he'd stay safe. And as I closed the door of the
house, I allowed my hand to touch Sputnik's anxious head for the last
time.

Behind
the wheel of the Land Rover, I thought of my husband, arranging
supplies for the young soldiers already streaming north. I knew that
he was safe for now, and would contact me as soon as he could. 'Stay
alive,' I prayed. 'Be here for us to come back to!' The drive to
Akrotiri was only forty kilometers, but although I knew the road like
the back of my hand, I had no idea what lay ahead.

Friday, 11 May 2012

This week's prompt from Write on Edge was the first line: 'Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.'The limit was 500 words. I wrote about an early visit to Jerusalem in 1981.

Please visit the link and see what other writers came up with.

***

Two men
appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit
lane. I could see the lights of my hotel, the Jordan House, twenty
yards behind them; people on the patio, a waiter passing with a tray
of drinks. Plaintive music drifted from an open window upstairs.
Behind me lay the still-unknown streets of East Jerusalem – finding
my way in the dark had been an endless journey through the winding
alleys of the Old City, up half-lit lanes, and along unfamiliar
streets of iron-shuttered shops until at last I found the Albright
Institute on the corner of Salah-ed-Din Street and knew I was nearly
safe.

The men
had seen me. My choice lay between a brazen forward approach
and flight back into the labyrinth.

I chose
the former. Perhaps they were on their way home too, late for their
families, imagining dinner. Only the prickling on the back of my
neck told me that they were a threat.

Without
breaking stride, I moved into the lane, out of the moonlight and into
the shadow of a parked tour bus. The men were still in front of me,
perhaps ten metres away, in the moonlight until they melted into the
shadow of the wall. Losing sight of them, I felt my heart and
breathing quicken and my eyes dart, striving to pierce the blackness.
My ears strained for the scuff of footfalls, my nostrils widened, trying to sift human scent from the background city smells.

Nothing.
Another two steps, three. They must be very close now, the distance
between tour bus and the wall was hardly more than two metres and I
had been moving steadily forward.

I was
nearly out of the shadow.

A hand
snaked from the side, grabbing for my arm. I whirled and roared, turning in towards the figure darker than darkness, slamming into his
slight body, my jacket slipping from his loosened grip as I smelled
sweat, cigarettes, and cheap cologne. Then I roared again, and teeth
bared headed for the bigger figure looming on my other side. The
momentum carried me into the moonlight in front of the hotel and I
heard the patter of running footsteps, a slither on loose stones, a
muttered curse in Arabic, then only the chatter of the other hotel
guests discussing their day in the City of Peace.

Friday, 16 March 2012

Running away is our theme this week. You could tell me something you once ran away from, or find yourself often running from, or write about something you wish you could escape.

Or tell me what/where you wish you could run TO, what would be your sanctuary? Perhaps imagine yourself free of responsibility. Where would you go? What would you take? What would you do once you got there?

Make it about real life, or an alternative life, or make up a story, about yourself or an invented character. It’s completely up to you.

***

I want to dream no more
of the Latin Lover that has haunted my dreams for nigh on twenty years. Sad and sore as she left me, our story ended years ago.
And albeit not without regret, I have moved on.

So why do I travel by
night to Catalunya at least once a month? Why do my dreams include
the passion and poetry of a language unspoken by me for years? I
dream of companionship, trust, touch, conversation... a warm,
slanting glance from tawny eyes.

I wake with half-formed
questions, the ones I never asked so long ago. I wake wishing to
shake these dreams, but without knowing how. Meditation has not
worked, nor have releasing rituals. I live with the dreams as
parasites that sap my energy by dragging me back to a past worked
through – not buried – long ago. I spend the rest of the day
calming myself, preparing to face another night, and hoping that it
will be barren.

'Make contact!' urges a
small internal whisper. But 'For what?' sneers the voice of Reason.
'She has a son now, and you have no reason to believe that she
remembers your name, your face, or your body.' I was part of a fiery
celebration that followed an interlude of war and betrayal, where
each spark confined was another affirmation of her survival. She
chased, caught, marvelled at... and forgot, perhaps extinguished,
many.

Understanding long ago
dissolved my bitterness, so why the dreams? And where the escape?

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

This weeks's prompt from RemembeRED was to write about a mentor (or my experience of being a mentor) in 500 words or less. I went a little over the limit. Please follow the link to see how others handled the prompt!

***

She was a Woman Marine.
Resentful of the femininity that denied her a combat job, she
compensated by 'macha', by maxing her PT, by doing her work –
'completing her mission' – better than anyone else.

Jamie's grandfather had
been a Marine, and her father. They taught her to shoot straight and
instilled a love of physical challenge, country, and The Corps. But
their combat nightmares never touched their stories, and when she
returned from the Gulf her disillusionment with Duty was complete and
devastating. She didn't turn to me, denied herself an opportunity
for forgiveness. Her rifle became her one-way ticket out.

We were not lovers.
She would not have risked her career by being outed as a dyke. And
I, although attracted by her power and beauty, thought myself
straight. The few boyfriends in my life, she dubbed 'pussies'. She
was my elder by six years, and now, two decades wiser, I wish that we
had been more honest: that she hadn't chosen career over love, that
I had been a little less naive.

I lived in Jacksonville
and we saw each other often. We dived the wrecks off the Carolina
coast. We hiked and camped – she taught me land-nav, climbing,
rapelling. Confidence. “There's a little Marine in you,
Asproulla,” she'd say. “Deep down. When you feel like giving up,
reach for that Marine. She'll keep you going through the darkness
and she'll never let you down.”

“Develop a
signature,” she advised. “Your signature says alot about you.
It should be clear and strong...” To this day, mine mimics hers:
sloping left to right, first name joined to surname, bold and
unmistakeable.

The end came when she
deployed to Europe. “Come,” she said, before shipping out. “Why?” I
asked. “Why not?” she answered. “As what?” I countered. I
didn't want to go to Kasserne. I couldn't speak German, couldn't
work there. Had no role. And she couldn't reply .

We quarrelled over
trivialities, leaving the big issue unresolved. And after she left I
heard nothing for years. I made contact once, but she was with the
Embassy Guard in Japan, and although we tried to link-up, oceans and
continents proved as insuperable as law and gender.

In 1992, the call came
late at night. Regret and pain, blurred by tears and alcohol, rolled
down the line. “Lies! That's all it was... There's no Honour in
what we did... I'll never lose the smell of death, of burning...”
She stammered something inintelligible and disconnected, leaving me
sleepless for hours.

Next morning I got
through to the NCO on duty in her company. “Are you family,
ma'am?” I gave my name and waited while the Marine found the
company commander.

“Asproulla,” he
said. “Yeah... That's on the envelope.” I heard him draw
breath. “There's no easy way to say this ma'am, but Jamie took her
own life last night. She left a letter, with your name but no
address.”

He said more, but I
recall little. Her funeral and the following weeks are an indistinct
memory, a morass that I swam because I had to.

More than once,
thinking that emotional exhaustion would claim me and I would die
right then and there, I reached down for 'that little Marine'. And
every time, she brought me through.